The Trouble with Grace

I had been dreading the conversation for days. Weeks.

Months actually.

Someone I know was stuck in a rut. They were clinging to a certain sin (or their sin was clinging to them--I'm not always sure which way it goes). They didn't want to give it up. They didn't even want to categorize it as "sin." And they certainly didn't want me to put it in that category for them. So I'd been dutifully looking the other way. Pretending not to notice. Pretending it really wasn't there.

I thought about saying something earlier. But really, who wants to be "that guy"? You know the one. The Christian who is "good" in the worst sense of the word (as Mark Twain said). The preacher whacking people over the head with is ten pound King James Version, whipping out the bullhorn to declare God's judgement and wrath on those who have violated his commandments. After all, we are supposed to be people who model Christ's love. People who show the world his grace.

But that, it seems to me, is the rub. We're supposed to show the world grace. That's a kingdom value. But does showing the world grace mean that we can no longer talk to the world (or to each other) about sin? Does it mean that the right thing for me to do with my friend would've been to look the other way?

That's a popular idea. People often say things like: "More grace, less judgment". What they mean is that yes, I should keep my mouth shut. I should accept my friends no matter what. I should show grace, not judgement.

And of course, there is something right and admirable about the impulse. But I have to admit, I think there is something slightly off base about it.

The problem is that when we put grace and judgment at odds with one another, we've confused grace and tolerance. Like grace, tolerance accepts everybody--regardless of what they've done or left undone. But unlike grace, tolerance refuses to deal with sin head on. Tolerance deals with sin by renaming it--by calling it something other than sin. Tolerance looks the other way, always minds it's own business, lets every person do as s/he sees fit. Tolerance makes no judgements about right or wrong.

It's an attractive approach. But it's not grace.

In order to show grace (and not mere tolerance) you have to make a judgment that something is wrong. You have to acknowledge that a person (maybe even you!) needs to be forgiven, needs mercy, needs unmerited love and acceptance. That's the trouble with grace. When you talk about grace, you also have to talk about sin.

Here's what Neil Plantinga says on the subject:

"For the Christian Church ... to ignore, euphemize, or otherwise mute the lethal reality of the sin is to cut the nerve of the gospel. For the sober truth is that without full disclosure on sin, the gospel of grace becomes impertinent, unnecessary, and finally uninteresting." (Plantinga, Not the Way It's Supposed to Be, p. 199)

So what does that have to do with my friend?

Well, after a lot of hand wringing, pacing around my office, and--yes--prayer, I decided I had to have that difficult conversation. I decided I needed to tell him that--from what I understood of God's word and will for his life--what he was doing was sin. I had to make a judgment. But I also I had to do it in a way that was not judgmental. I had to do it in a way that was full of the fragrance of Christ. A way that showed him unconditional love, mercy, acceptance of Jesus Christ despite what he was doing wrong.

I wish it was easy--like tolerance. But it wasn't. Sadly, there's no handbook for these things. No neat and tidy procedure that ensures we'll get it right. Like most people, I had to work things out within the messy context of relationship. And like most people, I stumbled and fumbled. Like most people, I didn't get it all right. But I tried. By the grace of God, I tried.

"My Pleasure"

"Nothing presses the noses of the faithful up against the windows of their faith like death."

Thomas Lynch

We had another funeral on Monday morning. We came together as a community, sang songs, prayed, heard God's word, and, afterwards, shared stories over ham buns and jello in the church basement.

Twenty-four hours later, the family huddled under a green tent pitched in the middle of a vast cemetery. They sat on their folding chairs, the casket holding their mother and grandmother setting before them--unavoidable--waiting to be lowered into the ground. And again we prayed, we heard God's word, and afterwards shared stories as the family read the names off the surrounding grave stones and remembered those who had already gone to be "with the Lord."

I've been to a few funerals by now (probably participated in twenty or so in my combined two and a half years in two different churches). I hope it doesn't sound cold to say that this was all pretty standard stuff. I don't say anything new or ground shaking; I didn't come up with anything the family hadn't heard before or said in some way to one another (in one form or another). It was one of those affairs of which Garrison Keillor's Pastor Inkfus commented, "The preacher said said the things that preachers always say on such occasion, but the things that need to be said anyway."*

All the same, one of the children came up to me after it all, shook my hand, and thanked me. It was a pleasure, he said. He was very kind. But his comment caused me to fumble for a reply. The pleasure was all mine or Glad I could do it seemed like the natural response to such a statement. But that felt rather "off" for reasons that should be obvious to anyone. It just sounds cruel to say that doing some Saint's funeral was a pleasure.

But the truth is it was. It was a pleasure spending time with the family--being invited into such an intimate moment in their life. But more than that, it was a pleasure because I got to do such a wonderful thing. I got to stand next to a casket that hovered over a grave--just waiting to fill it--and tell the old old story about another grave that remained empty. I got to say words like "hope" and "peace" and "comfort" and, above all "resurrection".

I say those sorts of things every time. And I get shivers--every time.

Before I started leading funerals, I would've assumed that they would be times of spiritual struggle and doubt for me. I assumed that the dark shroud that hangs over us during times of death would make it impossible to see much of God at all. It's true that I've been to a few funerals that have been like that (of children, for instance) and suspect that may be the case for others in attendance. But as a pastor, I find that some of the most nourishing times for me have been at funerals and by gravesides. For some reason, the Spirit seems to be more tangibly present at these affairs. And perhaps more to the point, it is when death presses my nose up against the window of my faith that I see with greatest clarity my risen Lord on the other side. In those moments I am convinced--right down to my toenails--that I have not put my trust in him in vain. And that is always a pleasure!

*This is a paraphrase. If any Keillor devotees out there know the exact line (from sometime this spring) I'd love to have it.

Stomp for Jesus?

I recently went to a production of "Stomp" with some friends. If you're not familiar, it's a dance/drumming group that uses every day things--brooms, newspapers, pipes, gas cans, kitchen sinks, basketballs--to make music. Not the kind of music you'd hear in a cathedral or concert hall--but music nonetheless. Personally, I think they do a mighty fine job of it (see the video below if you'd like a taste).

The show was plenty engaging in it's own right. But even as I watched with simple delight, I couldn't help but think about a question that I often hear: What does it mean to be "Reformed"?

The standard answer is that being "Reformed" has to do with (a) our historical roots in the Reformation of the 16th Century and (b) our conviction that the sovereign God has placed his claim on "every square inch" of our lives and we are to bring him glory in all that we do.

I think that's an accurate answer--but it's not a very inspiring or creative one. So as I sat and watched those musicians swoosh their brooms in perfect rhythm and clang on their sinks in strange harmony, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a better answer playing out right in front of me. After all, we Reformed folks pride ourselves in using the term "worship" in a very broad way. We want to expand the activity beyond the sanctuary on Sunday morning--we want it to overflow into all of life, wherever we find ourselves, no matter what we're doing. And it seems to me that that's exactly what was happening in that show. Of course, those who were making that music may not have intended it that way--but I suspect that God took some delight--in their creativity and joy, their harmonies and their rhythms, in their ability to make music with whatever the could find--anyway.

So, how is it that we can make God glorifying "music" while standing over our own kitchen sinks, clicking at our keyboards, ruffling through our papers? How can we use everything in life--even our garbage--to bring Him praise and glory?

Great Taste During Lent

No joke: I saw this sign in Taco Bell a few weeks ago. There are too many levels of irony to comment on here, but suffice it to say that I'm not so sure that the folks who came up with the concept really "get" Lent. Even so, they helped me "get" it a little better.

I've still got John 4 (the Samaritan Woman at the Well) on the brain. I'm still thinking about why Jesus goes about unraveling this woman's past. The obvious answer (which is usually the best answer when it comes to Scripture interpretation) is that he wanted to help her see how she'd been looking for love in all the wrong places. Jesus wanted to open her eyes to the way that she'd been trying to quench her deepest thirsts and hungers (for intimacy, meaning, security) in all the wrong places. He wanted to show her how she'd been filling up on cheap substitutes that could never leave her satisfied. He wanted to show her just how thirsty (and hungry) she was for Him, and what he could offer her.

It seems to me that Jesus wanted to show her that she was trying to fill up on Taco Bell when what she really wanted was Him.

That, of course, is one of the great questions we ask ourselves during Lent. Who (or what) do we look to to satisfy our hungers and quench our thirsts? Have we been duped into filling up on cheap substitutes and lost our appetites for the real deal?

Recently, a friend of mine posted this quote on her blog:

" Do not be surprised, therefore, when you have yielded your service, given your affection, and poured out your heart to that pleasure of yours, your idol,
your own lust and mischief--do not be surprised, then, if you have no appetite
for Christ, or for that heavenly food."
--Robert Bruce

She then went on to confess that she needs to give up reading anything but the Bible for a while. It's a drastic step for her because she loves books, loves words, loves ideas, loves stories. But she says that she's been so busy trying to satisfy her thirst with them--these "cheapo substitutes"--that she's lost her appetite for Living Water and Bread from Heaven. Books were her "Taco Bell."

I love her insight for it's honesty. But I also love it because it helped me see that sometimes, the things that we need to give up--those artificial substitutes--often aren't bad in and of themselves. What's keeping us from drinking deeply from the well of Living Water might not be something obvious: pornography, or gossip, or promiscuous relationships--those favorite sins of preachers. It may be something that is good in it's proper place--when our loves are properly ordered (as Augustine said)--but that has slipped out of place. It may be that we're filling up on books, family, work, hobbies. It may be that these good things that have become dangerous because we're too full of them to be full of Him. If you'll let me push the analogy--it may be that we're taking what's okay on occasion (Taco Bell?) and filling up on it all the time.

Of course, it doesn't have to be that way. Jesus says he's got something better than Grilled Stuffed Burritos for us. He says that we "he has food we may know nothing about (vs. 32) and that "...those who drink the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life."

The next time you're tempted to pull through the drive-thru at Taco Bell, think about that! He is the one who satisfies!

Growing into Providence

"I cannot fit it all [tragedy] together by saying, 'God did it.' But neither can do so by saying, 'There was nothing he could do about it.' I can only, with Job, endure.”

Nicholas Wolterstorff in Lament for a Son

An elderly gentleman told me a story today. It must've happened more than eighty-five years ago, when he was a little boy. He didn't elaborate on the details, though it was clearly etched in his mind.

It seems that a a group of children from the neighborhood went swimming at a local pond one day. One of them didn't come home.

At the funeral, the preacher said: "This was not an accident. This was a part of God's plan. This was God's will."

My old friend has never forgotten it.

I'm not sure if he believed his preacher or not. But it seems that he did. It seems that he found the words to be full of hope, full of comfort.

I'm not sure that I do.

I worry that--with all our Calvinistic talk about Divine Providence and Sovereignty and Control--we run the risk of making God the author of evil. For if God pulls the puppet strings that pull a young boy under water, what can you call it but evil? I wonder, wouldn't we be better off if we gave the credit for these things to somebody/something else?

On the other hand--I understand the comfort in knowing/believing that things don't simply happen at random; that there is a higher purpose; that the Good God is in control and that tragedy strikes because he has some hidden good in mind that we cannot understand.

I suspect that there is some messy middle ground between these two positions (micromanaging of the universe on the one hand and liaise faire style of governance on the other) where the truth about God's role in all this lies. There must be some way to nuance our theological language that respects both the power of our good God as well as the reality and power of evil.

I'll let you know when I find it.

In the meantime, I find that when trying to make sense of God's role in the brokenness of this world and in our lives, most folks toss nuance out the window and pick one side or the other. As for me--the longer I'm in ministry, the more I'm learning to respect the folks who put their faith in a God who is in complete control. It takes a lot of faith (and chutzpa) to sit by the hospital bed of a loved one, to stand over the casket of a friend, to take a pink slip from a boss, to watch the evening news and to still say: It was God's will. I do not understand it all. But I know God is good. God is in control. And that is enough for me.

But like I said, I'm not quite there yet. It seems to me that in so many matters of faith, I'm like a child playing dress up--I've got Dad's suit, tie, and shoes on, but they're all too big. I've got some growing to do before I can fit into them quite right. And while I'd like to think that I've grown up a bit in the past few years--while the "pants of providence" don't pool around my ankles quite like they used to--I've still got some growing to do before I say with the the same simple conviction of that Dominie of years gone by: "This was not an accident. This was a part of God's plan. This was God's will."

The Revealer of Mysteries: Take 2

I encountered what could only be referred to as irony in my sermon preparation this week. I've been doing my best to write a compelling, relevant, biblical sermon on Daniel 2--and on the "Revealer of Mysteries" that is so frequently referred to there. But in the meantime, I've felt enshrouded in mystery myself. For some reason, I can't seem to see this text with the clarity I would like. I've found myself keeping company with Nebuchadnezzar--tossing and turning at night as I try to understand what God is trying to "reveal" to us in all of this.

Come Sunday (barring major a major revelation in the next 48 hours), I'll be talking about how God's knowledge of the future assures us of his control of the future. But I've also thought--more than once--that this text might take us a different direction.*

It seems to me that old Nebuchadnezzar is on a quest for truth in this passage. He's looking for a kind of truth that doesn't come about through human intuition, or the standard Babylonian ways of knowing that he had long depended on. This methods of knowing the deeper mysteries of life are ultimately insufficient and not dependable. Nebuchadnezzar needs something more. He needs a revelation from God. (That's why he ups the ante with his court astrologers and has them tell the dream--because he wants to know that they can be trusted).

The parallel is less exact than I'd like (and that's one of the reason's I didn't preach this) but it seems to me that there may be a very strong Christ connection in this passage. After all, Paul frequently refers to Christ as the "mystery of God" (do a search--it's rather fascinating. Or start with Col 1:25-2:5, 1 Cor. 15)**. The question for us then becomes how we can know the truth about the mystery of Christ.

There are plenty of places to start when we're searching for the "meaning of the mystery" that is Christ. Apologetic arguments, intuition, the words and witness of passionate believers. But in the end, our conviction of the truth of this mystery will not come from our normal sources of understanding; it will not come from our quest to discover and discern Christ. Ultimately, it will come from God's movement toward us. It will come from his act of revelation. And if we take Daniel's actions as a cue, it will only come when we step out in faith and enter a relationship (prayer) with him.

I think it's something worth considering. I know some folks (some readers here?) who are curious about the Christian faith, curious about Christ, but don't know how they can know for certain. To them, I'd say--step out in faith. Pray that God will reveal this truth to you (or to your loved ones). Or if you're a person who struggles with day to day doubts, with the plausibility of what we confess to be true as Christians (which most of us who think about these things will do at some point)--pray to God to reveal the mystery to you. Ask him to give you true wisdom and insight into the certainty of life with Christ.

*More than one, actually. If I get around to it, I'd like to jot down a few things on the politics of Daniel 2.
**A connection can also be made with the "wisdom" idea that comes in Daniel's Song (Chap 2.20 ff)--God gives wisdom, and the wisdom of God is the foolishness of the world--the cross of Christ that we know through the Spirit. Cf. 1 Cor 1

Definitions: Some Thoughts on Forgiveness

One of the bright spots that has emerged through the darkness of Sunday's tragic shootings has been the declarations of forgiveness from the family and friends of the victims. Christians have taken notice and, quite significantly, so has the press.* As more than one person has said to me, we ought to be grateful for the positive example of people living out their faith in a forgiving God.

Others, however, have not been quite so sure. In a recent conversation, someone had the courage to suggest what many of us may have thought--that perhaps it was too soon to offer forgiveness, that maybe doing so trivialized what was, by all accounts, a very terrible wrong, or that doing so may have rushed a grief process in which anger would have played an important role.

These are all legitimate concerns--but I think they may stem from a misunderstanding of forgiveness. So a few thoughts today on what forgiveness does--and does not--involve.**

• Forgiveness is not a one time event. The individuals affected by Sunday's shootings declared their forgiveness almost immediately. However, it will take time for them to grow into this declaration. As I mentioned in a sermon on this topic last month, they will have to forgive--to make moves against their anger--again, and again, and again (seventy times seven!). I suspect that for some of these people (perhaps all of them) it will take years for forgiveness to be complete. As Smedes says, "Forgiving is a journey; the deeper the wound, the longer the journey."
• Forgiveness does not mean condoning or excusing a wrong. In fact, forgiveness means the opposite. To forgive someone of a wrong, you must acknowledge that there is actually a wrong to be forgiving. To forgive, you must assign blame. When we forgive, we are not saying that the intolerable has suddenly become tolerable. Rather, we are saying that the only way we can deal with an intolerable wrong is through the miracle of forgiveness.
• Forgiveness does not mean minimizing a wrong. Saying "I forgive you" is not the same thing as saying, "That's okay--it was no big deal." If it's not a big deal, it doesn't need to be forgiven. As Lewis Smedes has written somewhere, "We need to sort out our hurts and learn the difference between those that call for the miracle of forgiveness and those that can be borne with a sense of humor. If we lump all our hurts together and prescribe forgiveness for all of them, we turn the art of forgiving into something cheap and commonplace. Like good wine, forgiving must be preserved for the right occasion.”
• Forgiveness is not the same thing as reconciliation. Reconciliation may be seen as the ultimate (though not always attainable) goal of forgiveness. However, forgiveness is only one step in achieving this goal. For full reconciliation to occur, the person who committed the wrong must also make a move--must "repent" in the biblical sense of the word (express both sorrow AND a commitment to change). If the person who committed the wrong has not changed, it would be unwise--even foolish--to enter back into relationship with them. In short, it takes one person to forgive but two to achieve full reconciliation.
• Forgiveness does not mean there are no consequences. God (and good parents, I think) may forgive the sins of His children but deem it important for them to live with the consequences of their poor choices. Sometimes when we forgive people, it is also necessary that they live with painful consequences. This can be an important a way of protecting ourselves from future hurts.
• Forgiveness does not mean forgetting: Forgiveness has more to do with the way we remember than with removing our memories. When we forgive, we learn to remember without anger or a desire for revenge. Furthermore, in a sin filled world, remembering the wrong we've forgiven can be important because of the need to protect ourselves from future hurts.
• Forgiveness is not something we only do for other people: Scripture makes clear that forgiveness is one of the ways we show Christ-like love for other people. However, it's also a way we love ourselves. When we refuse to forgive, we are held captive by our own anger and bitterness--it eats away at us and threatens to consume us. As Smedes writes: "When we forgive, we set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner we set free is us."

*It says something about the nature of forgiveness that it is considered newsworthy event. **Many of these come from Lewis Smedes' excellent book, The Art of Forgiving.

Endings and Beginnings

This week I'll be talking about our longing for our "home" in the New Creation (Isaiah 11)--a home that will be "set in order" for us when Jesus comes again. One of the thoughts I had kicking around in the back of my mind while I wrote the sermon came from something Eugene Peterson once wrote about atheists (and I may have commented on here before).

Peterson observes that many atheists are what he refers to as "Atheists of Compassion." They look around the world, see all the war and cancer and genocide and hypocrisy and other monstrosities that human beings are capable of, and conclude that there is no god worth believing in who would allow so much evil.* So their atheism, their refusal to believe in god/God, stems from their compassion for this world.

Peterson notes that in some ways, these atheists are our allies. As Christians, we too ought to be appalled by the brokenness of the creation. Our hearts ought to be just as broken (or more so) than that of a good atheists. So we agree there. We can call ourselves allies in our compassion for those who suffer in this world.

Of course, there are differences too. Namely, hope. We believe that there is a way "out" of this madness--a solution that will not come from the perfect political system or better policies or improved technology or a little more information or right thinking. We believe that one day, God himself will come again in the person of Jesus Christ and he will set all this right again. We believe that, because of his love for this world, God will not toss it in his divine dumpster, but instead will lovingly restore it to (and even beyond) it's prefallen glory. That's one of the reasons we long for his coming--because we love this world enough to want him to redeem it.

Here is how Lewis Smedes describes what will happen when Jesus comes again:

"C.S. Lewis said somewhere that when God comes back to earth it will be like having the author of a play called on stage after the final performance; the play is over, he takes his bow, the players leave, and the theater is swallowed in darkness. I do not much care for the metaphor. I believe that the Author of the play will appear on stage not after the final performance, but before the first curtain rises. The players have been turning rehearsals into nasty fights about who gets the best lines and the prime spot on the billboard; [they've been wrecking the set]; the play has become a disaster, doomed before it gets off the ground. it is then that the Author shows up, his original script in hand and with the power to change self-seeking egos into self-giving artists. The theater is bathed in gentle light, the curtain rises, and the play begins a triumphant and endless run. Not the ending, but the new beginning--this is what I hope for." (172).

What we long for when Christ comes again is not the day he will whisk us away from this mess, then destroy the world and toss it on the cosmic scrap heat. No, we long for the time when he will renew all things. We long for God's restoration of the world he loves (and we ought to love). We long for the time when we can experience the joys and comforts of home.

It's something to think about in the midst of our advent longing. Does our longing for his coming stem out of a disregard--even a disdain--for this world that God made? Or does it grow out of our love and compassion for it? Do we look at all the brokenness around us and just want to "fly away" and "be done with it all"? Or do we look at all the brokenness around us and hope that Jesus will come again and finally fix it--make it the way it's supposed to be? Do we sit around with our heads in the sand and wait for the sweet by-and-by? Or do we join Him in his big redemption project, even while we wait?

*This is the "problem of evil" argument. It's compelling, but it raises its own questions. For example: How do you measure evil, and at what point do you say there's "too much" evil. Or more significantly, what do you do with all the good in the world? (I call this the "problem of good"). Who gets the credit for that?

More on Matthew 18

"Forgive us our debts, as we've forgiven our debtors." Most of us have probably squirmed at that little phrase in the Lord's prayer. We squirm because we all struggle to forgive from time to time--and a simple reading of that phrase makes it sound like God's forgiveness is contingent upon our own; it sounds as though we can somehow loose our place in his household if we fail to do what we're told.

The Lord's Prayer isn't the only nugget of scripture that might give you that impression. You might think that after reading the parable that we studied together on Sunday morning, too (Matt 18:21-35). This poor schmuck is forgiven a huge debt, fails to pass it on, and apparently loses his forgiven status. You might read this parable and conclude that God's forgiveness is fickle.

It's troubling and we ought not try to explain it all away too quickly. But some comments I read this weekend in NT Wright's book, Evil and the Justice of God, helped me make sense of it (without making Jesus' teaching easier than it really is). Here's what he says about Jesus' command to forgive in this passage:

"Jesus is not giving a kind of arbitrary, abstract commandment and then saying that if you fail to meet the test God will not forgive you. He isn’t setting the moral bar at an impossible height and then warning that God will be everlastingly cross if we don’t manage to jump it. He is drawing attention to a fact about the moral universe and human nature. He is telling us, in effect, that the faculty we have for receiving forgiveness and the faculty we have for granting forgiveness are one and the same thing. If we open the one we shall open the other. If we slam the door on the one, we slam the door on the other. God is not being arbitrary. If you are the sort of person who will accuse a neighbor over every small thing and keep him or her under your anger until each item has been dealt with (perhaps by your gaining revenge), then you are also the sort of person who will be incapable of opening your heart to receive God’s generous forgiveness. Indeed, you will probably not admit that you need it in the first place.” (158)

Jumpstarting Judgment

A Christian summer camp counselor I knew once reported having one of the most successful weeks ever. He proclaimed, with understandable delight, that each of the twelve boys in his cabin had given their lives to Jesus. They wanted to be Christians. They wanted to live for and with Jesus from that point on and into all eternity.

The rest of the camp staff was ecstatic--at first. But that didn't last long. Because the next week, camp supervisors were inundated with phone calls from concerned parents. Apparently, many of the young boys who had been in that converted cabin were having nightmares that were directly related to their week at camp. They would toss and turn as they dreamt--not about the boogie man or some other camp fire legend they had learned while chomping on s'mores--but about the torments of hell and the torture that would be inflicted upon them for all eternity if they didn't get their acts together and give their lives to Jesus.

As the phone calls rolled in and the story was pieced together, the mass conversion of Cabin 14 suddenly was a lot less exciting and a lot more disturbing.

I doubt that any of us would feel comfortable using the evangelism tactic of that camp counselor--scaring people out of hell and into heaven. But what's troubling about the text we looked at last week (Matt 5:21ff) is that Jesus appears to do that very thing. He lets his listeners know--in no uncertain terms--that if they don't clean up their lives, their future is not very bright. So what are we to make of this?

Well, there are several thoughts we ought to keep in mind. First: there is the obvious difference between the speaker: between Jesus (perfect) and us (not-so-much). Second, there is a distinction that must be made between the audiences: Jesus speaks to people (adults) who are presumed to be a part of the community of faith while in evangelism we (or at least that camp counselor) are talking to those who are presumed to be outside of the community of faith. That distinction is not insignificant.

That being said, something else that those of us in the community of faith might consider is the nature of judgement. We tend to think of judgment (I think) largely in negative terms. We think about a finger wagging God ready to give us what we deserve and eager to crush us with his almighty thumb. But that's not quite the full picture of biblical judgment.

When God "judges" his people in scripture, it is not merely retributive. It is also restorative. God not only punishes, he also disciplines. Consider, for example, the exile of the people Israel. The point is not merely to send them away from the promise land to suffer in the labor camps of the Babylonians. The point is to purify them--to burn away all the garbage that stands in between them, God, and their neighbors. The point is to help them live the kind of "shalom-filled" lives of wholeness for which they were created. Or as Thomas Long puts it in his commentary on Matthew. 5:

"In the biblical sense, judgment is God’s exercise of good judgment, repairing all that is harmful to humanity. Judgment is God’s repairing of the broken creation. Judgement is God’s scalpel carefully removing the malignant tissue that threatens life. Judgment is God’s burning away of all that is cruel and spirit killing in order that we may breath the air of compassion. Judgment is good news; it is God setting things right.”

From this perspective, we can think of Christ's call to be reconciled with our neighbors as a way to "jump start judgment." Because when we're seeking to be reconciled with a brother or sister--when we confess to the ways we've hurt people, when we try to restore our relationship with them, when we do our best to remove the garbage that separates us from God and each other--we're not waiting for Jesus to return to set things right and cut away the "malignant tissue that threatens life", but we're trying to do it ourselves. And in that way, we're "jump starting judgment."

So just a reminder (or if you weren't in church Sunday morning, a challenge): Jesus calls us to do our best to set right the wrongs that linger between us. And he calls us to do it now. Don't wait for God to do it. Don't wait for Kingdom come to do it. But through the power of the Spirit, take the initiative and do it today.

Food, Farms, and Faith

My friend Becky grew up on a large farm in central Iowa but has since moved to the booming metropolis of Grand Rapids, MI. Some time ago, she was reflecting on the transition. There are things she likes about living in the city, she said. But even so, there are times she feels, well, "disoriented."

I didn't quite understand what she meant at first. But I hazarded a few guesses.

"Hmmm. Disoriented." I said, "Like when you're downtown and the streets aren't straight? Or in a suburb and keeping hitting cul-de-sacs?"

"No..."

"Okay, like when the sun doesn't shine for four months and you no longer know if its day or night?"

"No..."

Becky then went on to explain that she felt "disoriented" because she had lost her connection with the earth and therefore had no way of keeping time. Back on the farm, she and her family lived into the regular rhythms of the land. Planting. Irrigating. Harvesting. Resting. Their lives changed with the seasons.

But back in Michigan, Becky went to her office every day. She sat in a windowless, climate controlled room (sweaters in the summer, short sleeves in the winter!). It now made little difference to her and her livelihood if there were droughts or floods. She could still go to Meijers--even in February--and buy her tomatoes, asparagus, and whatever else she wanted to eat.

Becky's disorientation is something that all of us who live in the city face--even if we were never blessed to be "oriented" by farm life. Because all of us are separated from the earth. I read recently that the average meal in America travels 1,200 miles before ending up on our plates. A friend of mine (who's much better with these things than I am) once calculated that to get a single strawberry from California to the produce isle in a Northwest Iowa grocery store takes nearly 600 calories of energy (a huge net loss!). I've also been told that the tuna that is served in Manhattan's finest Sushi restaurants is caught on the Atlantic coast of the US, shipped to the fish markets in Tokyo, sold, and then shipped back to New York. In other words, that tuna goes around the world before it ends up on the plate of the American consumer (and this is not all that unusual in our food system).

There are, of course, tremendous ecological implications to all of this. Most obviously--there are all the extra costs involved (both in terms of finances and natural resources), and the generally unsustainable nature of this system. But there is a more subtle danger too. If we are separated from the means of production--separated from the land--and have no idea how our food is grown (or raised), then we will have little interest in the way the land is used (or the animals are treated). This alone should give us pause. (By the way, Wendell Berry is excellent on this point.)

But we should also consider what all these degrees of separation between us and the land do to our relationship with our Creator. If we spend our days in climate controlled offices, cooped up in our cars or even on the city bus, if depend solely on King Soopers to provide us with our food (Tomatoes in February!)--then not only will we be separated from the land, we will also be separated from the One who made and upholds the land.

This is a point that was brought home to me by Rob Bell recently. Bell argues that there are many people who struggle with needless doubts and faith crises. They complain that God seems too far away, that he is distant. But it's no wonder, says Bell. When we don't take time to notice God's handiwork, when we no longer need to pray to and depend upon him for daily bread, when he becomes a peripheral consideration in the meeting of our daily needs--then undoubtedly, he will seem a long ways away. But really, says Bell, it's not God who is a long way from us. It's we who are a long way from Him.

Where we get our food--our relationship with the land--can drastically affect our faith. If we are cut off from the creation, we will (almost) certainly face some spiritual "disorientation."

So what's the upshot of all this? Well, I'm suggesting that we all do what we can to get connected--with the Creation and the Creator. Start a garden next spring. Try to eat a locally grown meal. Walk instead of driving. Get connected with the creation. And the Creator.

If want to read more on the topic, I'd suggest the writings of Wendell Berry (particularly his "Jayber Crow" Novels, but also his essays, if you're ambitious), Kathleen Norris ("Dakota" is a great read).

Heaven

I've been thinking about heaven a lot the past few months. I've been thinking about what it is we want from heaven, what we hope it will be like, what exactly will make it so wonderful for us.

The Bible (and our culture) suggests many different answers to this question: we look forward to heaven because there will be no more suffering, "no more mourning, crying, or pain," as Revelation 21:4 so beautifully puts it. And of course, many of us look forward to being reunited with our loved ones (books like 90 Minutes in Heaven seem especially keen on this idea, from what I'm told). Or perhaps we simply look forward to heaven because we trust that will experience life as it was intended to be: a restored earth free of crime and pollution and all the brokenness, perhaps(depending on who we are and where we're getting our information) an eternal golf game* or the everlasting weekend in the mountains.

Those things may all be well and good. But I wonder, are they enough? Or ought we to be hoping for something more? Or as John Piper puts the question:

The critical question for our generation—and for every generation—is this: If you could have heaven, with no sickness, and with all the friends you ever had on earth, and all the food you ever liked, and all the leisure activities you ever enjoyed, and all the natural beauties you ever saw, all the physical pleasures you ever tasted, and no human conflict or any natural disasters, could you be satisfied with heaven, if Christ was not there?”

The "right" answer to that question, of course, (at least from a Christian perspective)ought to be "no." But my fear is that, too often, we talk about heaven (and about Christianity in general) in a way that suggests otherwise. Think, for example, of the way we may "pitch" Christianity evangelistically: we tell others that Jesus will relieve them of their guilt, give them the chance to see dear old aunt Sally again, or will get them some othe perk. Sure, these things may be true--but they miss the deeper point. The deeper point, as Piper puts it in the title of his book, is that GOD is the Gospel. The point is that true happiness comes from fellowship with HIM--which is exactly what he gives us in Christ and promises us for eternity!**

So why do I make such a big deal out of this? Well, for one thing, it's a simple matter of right thinking. Suggesting that heaven is more about forgiveness or lack of pain or some other perk than it is about life with God confuses the ends with the means.*** But more to the point--it comes back to T.S. Elliot's famous line: "In my end is my begninning." If our eternal goal is merely to be reunited with our loved ones, to live a pain free life, to ski for eternity--then that's how I'll live now. Those will be the things that we live for now. (And if that's how we live, I suspect we might be too earthly minded to be of much heavenly good.) But if my eternal goal is to dwell with God (and the rest is just details), than will have termendous implications for what--or WHO--I seeek and serve now!


*For some, this might only happen in that other, warmer , place!

**Since I've started thinking about this, I've realized that a much more central concern of Rev 21 (more central than the absence of sickness, crying or pain etc mentioned in verse 4) comes in verse 3: Now the dwelling of God is with humanity, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God... It's more about the relationship than the "perks."

***I find Lewis helpful on this point. In A Grief Observed, he writes: Am I just sidling back to God because I know that if there’s any road to H. [Lewis' deceased wife], it runs through him? But then of course I know perfectly well that He can’t be used as a road. If you’re approaching Him not as the goal but as a road, not as the end but as a means, you’re not really approaching Him at all. That’s what was really wrong with all those popular pictures of happy reunions ‘on the further shore’; not the simple-minded and very earthly images, but the fact that they make an End of what we can get only as a by-product of the true End.

Questions Worth Asking

I don't remember many worship services from my childhood days. But I do remember communion Sundays. I remember them because they were infrequent in those days (six times a year, I believe). I remember them because the service was sure to go long (10:55!). I remember them because I loved to look down the long pews of our sanctuary and see arms lifting and heads tipping in one beautiful, unified motion as the adults in our congregation received the body and blood of the Lord. Their unity in that moment reminded me of the way bows would move together in an orchestra.

But the other thing I remember about communion is peering at the shiny silver trays as they passed me by. Sometimes I would get to touch them or help pass them. But usually not. In the CRC in which I was raised, the Lord's supper was something for adults. Children were not invited.

As I'm sure many of you know, discussion in recent* years in the CRC has suggested that we change that. Synod has now suggested that it's okay--even important--for children to participate in the Lord's Supper. But this makes some of us (understandably )nervous. After all, we've "always" done things this way. And if was good enough then, why isn't it good enough now?

Well, I have my own answers to that question. But I'd like to help all four of you who read this blog come to your own conclusions. So here are some questions I think you need to answer for yourselves in order to develop a theologically informed position on this matter.

• Our discussion ought to start with baptism: What actually happens to a child in baptism? What's the main event? How does baptism relate to membership in God's family (if at all)?
• What is the relationship between baptism and communion?
• What are some of the central "happenings" in the Lord's Supper (I assume there is more than one)? Is it primarily an act of remembrance on our part? A way for God to nourish us? Something else?
• To phrase the previous question another way: who is the primary actor in the sacraments? Is the Lord's Supper (and for that matter, Baptism) something that God does for us, or something that we do for God?
• What is the relationship between the "old" signs of the covenant (i.e. circumcision and the Passover Feast) and the "new" signs of the covenant (Baptism and the Lord's Supper). Does the place of children in these "old" ceremonies suggest anything about their appropriate place in the "new"?
• What "body" is Paul referring to in 1 Corinthians 11? How might reading this passage as referring to the "body of believers " affect what we do at the table?
• How does the gift of the Lord's Supper strengthen us and build us up as followers of Christ? How might it do the same (or be different) for our children?

I think this ought to be enough to get you started. If you'd like to read what (I think) are some well thought out answers to these questions, as well some questions you may not have thought to ask (like the history of this issue) check out the latest issue of the Calvin Seminary Forum. (Also available at church. Ask me if you'd like a copy.)

*Walt A. , our expert on all things syndoical and church order, informs me that this discussion has actually been going on for over twenty years. That's long enough that I actually could have participated in the Supper as a child if my church had been up to speed on the latest Synodical decisions.

Revelation

A week or two ago, someone at church handed me a copy of Jon Krakauer's book Under the Banner of Heaven. The book looked interesting, but after glancing at the cover, I wasn't sure I wanted to read it (just yet). You see, I've just read some other books that are rather disturbing (namely: "King Leopold's Ghost") and wasn't sure I was ready for what Krakauer had to offer: an investigation into the murder of a young mother and her daughter at the hands of two brothers, Dan and Ron Lafferty--two Fundamentalist Mormons who carried out the killings after receiving (they claim) a direct command from God.

Well, Jill was gone last week and I found myself with a little extra time on my hands and nothing to read. So I grabbed Under the Banner of Heaven and dug right in. I'm glad I did.

The book was fascinating to me because Krakauer didn't just tell the story of the murder. Instead, he chose to dig into the "roots of their crime [which] lie deep in the history of an American religion practiced by millions"--Mormonism. Krakauer gives a fairly detailed history of Mormonism (and more specifically, the underbelly of the Mormon Church--Mormon fundamentalism) and, occasionally, pauses to apply his observations of Mormonism to religion in general.

One particular aspect of Mormonism/religion that seems to fascinate Krakauer is the idea of "revelation". And with good reason. After all, when Joseph Smith founded the Mormon Church 170 years ago, it was on the basis of a (alleged) revelation from the Angel Moroni (near Jill's hometown of Palmyra, NY, by the way). During the following years, Smith (and his followers) reported countless revelations/interactions with God detailing everything from where they should settle to what they should drink to whom they should marry to when the Civil War would begin. Krakauer's fascination with religious revelation is also understandable because (as I mentioned above), it was on the basis of a Revelation from God that the Lafferty brothers committed their murders.

From my perspective, Krakauers discussion of the Mormon Church, the Lafferty Brothers, and revelation stirred up two related thoughts.

First: What is it that leads Mormons to believe, so fiercely, that they have indeed had revelations from God? As a Christian, I don't (necessarily) doubt the possibility of God communicating with individuals. But I DO (as a Christian) presume that at least 97% of the supposed revelations received by Joseph Smith and his followers are in fact false. So what are we to make of this (and for that matter, the "revelations" received by adherents to other religions)? Are these individuals simply deluded? Have they been duped? Do they just have a bad case of indigestion? Or have they actually heard "voices", but mistaken the voice of God for the voice of someone/thing else? How do we explain this phenomenon?

The second point, related to the first, concerns the "Revelations" that we claim to be true as Christians. Because, make no mistake, even if we don't believe that God communicates directly with individuals anymore (a hotly debated question in some circles), our religion is nevertheless a revealed one. It's a "revealed religion" because, even though we can deduce some general truths from reason/nature (e.g. "God Exists), ultimately, we need the Revelation of Scripture (and the Person of Jesus Christ) in order to show us the full truth.

So, that being said, how do we know that our "revelations" can be accepted as from God? How do we know that we're not crackpots, misguided zealots, or just plain gullible people who have been duped? How do we know that we can trust the apostle Paul, Matthew Mark and Luke, Moses, Isaiah, and the other writers?

This has actually been a question that has troubled me for some time. And after reading Krakauer's book (and let's face it, sometimes after reading Scripture itself), it's easy to see why people might be skeptical. But regrettably (in my opinion), this is one area in which it's hard to get to a real nuts and bolts, "rational" answer. Sure, we can point to things like historical/archeolotical evidence and manuscript studies--but these only take us so far. At some point, I think we simply have to believe it because, well, we believe it. It's a matter of faith. It's a matter of the Spirit's testimony in our hearts. It's a matter of trust. We believe the Bible because the Bible (and the Spirit) says we can believe it. It is a vicious circle, and probably not the most satisfying answer to skeptics (Christian or non*), but thus far, it's the best answer that I can come up with. Anyone smarter than me have a better one?

*Krakauer, a self-proclaimed agnostic, would likely shake his head at disgust at my answer. In the prologue of his book, he writes: "Faith is the very antithesis of reason, injudiciousness a crucial competent of spiritual devotion." Krakauer also adds this rather provocative charge: "when Religious fanaticism supplants ratiocination, all bets are suddenly off. Anything can happen. Absolutely anything. Common sense is no match for the voice of God--as the actions Dan Lafferty vividly attest." (xxiii)

Baal, BEN FRANKLIN, and the Birds

That's what I was going to call my sermon Sunday. But because of time limitations, I had to leave the Ben Franklin part out.

There were several reasons I wanted to include a bit about Ben Franklin. One is that I just finished reading his biography and have to do something with all that information. After all, over 500 pages, I learned some interesting bits about old Ben:

• When he did the famous kite experiment with his son William, his son was actually 21 years old (not a small boy as legend seems to suggest). Later, the two were estranged because of their differing positions on the War for Independence.
• Franklin was a fan of parlor tricks. Among his favorites was a cane he made that would dispense oil on water when he tapped the waves. Doing so would "still the waves."
• Franklin briefly started his own sect. Among the rules: "all men shall have beards" and strict adherence to vegetarianism. The little experiment ended when Franklin caved in and ate a hamburger (or steak, or pork chop, I can't remember which).
• Franklin started the first volunteer fire department in America.
• Franklin believed that fresh air was good for one's health and took a daily "airbath" in front of his open window (some say in the nude).

There are many other interesting snippets about Franklin--but the simple intrigue of his life was not the primary reason I wanted to include him in my sermon. Rather, I wanted to include him because I see Franklin as something of a "Case in Point" for my discussion on "practical atheism." Let me explain.

One of the most famous scenes in Franklin's life (taken from his own autobiography) is his arrival in America as a "bedraggled 17-year-old runaway...straggling off the boat" with little more than a nickle to his name. Equally famous is the image of Franklin some fifty or sixty years later, simple but stately, a wealthy land owner (with three homes when he died), mover and shaker of 18th century politics etc etc. Basically, a success. According to Isaacson (Franklin's biographer), this move made Franklin "typically American" because Franklin proved that with a little hard work and ingenuity, (unlimited) upward mobility was possible. To borrow the old cliche, Franklin proved that it was possible (and indeed, expected), for Americans to "pull themselves up by their own bootstraps."

So what's the relation to "practical atheism"?

Well, in Franklin's world, the goal was to live independently, not dependently. Franklin believed in some sort of benevolent, powerful being off in the sky, but when things went well in his life, Franklin was much quicker to pat himself on the back than to offer up a prayer of thanksgiving. He was much quicker to praise his own industry and frugality than to praise the Maker of Heaven and Earth. He (Franklin) deserved all the credit for his life's successes.

Perhaps this sounds "normal" to us (particularly the "bootstraps"/industry talk)--it is, I think, a very accepted idea in our culture that with a little hardwork, we can do whatever we want. But now consider Isaacson's parting comment on Franklin's life and legacy. He writes: "[Franklin] embodies one side of a national dichotomy that has existed since the days when he and Jonathan Edwards [one of our Spiritual forefathers, I would say] stood as contrasting cultural figures. // On one side were those, like Edwards...who believed in an anointed elect and in salvation through God's grace alone. They tended to have a religious fervor...and an appreciation for exalted values over earthy ones. On the other side were the Franklin's, those who believed in salvation through good works...and who were unabashedly striving and upwardly mobile." (476)

It's an interesting dichotomy, I think. And perhaps one that ought to give us pause as we think about whose footsteps we follow in. Is it Edwards, dependent on God's grace? Or Franklin, and his "self-help" upward mobility? Where does our help come from?

:There are other the obviously "religious" implications that manifest themselves when this worldview is expanded beyond economics and into one's beliefs the relation between God and his world. For example, there was Franklin's well known effort to perfect himself by following a rigorous self-improvement regimen (complete with ledger book in which he recorded his progress on 13 virtues).

Not So Simple

Flipping through the channels the other night, I landed on a PBS documentary that caught my attention.

The first scene I saw was of a preacher from Wyoming (stereotypical boots, hat, wranglers and all) shouting at a line of protesters and holding a sign declaring (what he presumed to be) the eternal destiny of all homosexuals (use your imagination, you'll probably get it right).

I cringed.

The next shot was of a priest (from the same community in Wyoming, but dressed in more traditional clergy attire) holding up a communion chalice and declaring to his congregation that Jesus excluded no one, but welcomed all at his table freely and openly.

I cringed again.

Those two scenes reminded me of why some Christians find it so difficult to engage in a meaningful conversation about homosexuality (or for that matter, any issue of morality/sin) in our culture.* Generally speaking, Americans are not people who appreciate nuance (and yes, I realize the irony in that sentence). We live in a culture that prefers to see things in black and white, either/or terms (think of the way issues are discussed on political talk shows). The obvious case in point is the PBS documentary: either you are a hate-filled, homophobic, hayseed or you are a loving, open, and tolerant. There is little (no?) room for middle ground.

But those of us with gay friends/family/co-workers know it's not that simple. We realize that there is a messiness here that may not make for good (or easy) television but is a very real part of life. So what does this messiness look like? If PBS were to come film us, what would they catch on tape? What does it mean to hold on tight to grace and truth?


* Self included--I hesitate to even publish this post for fear of being misunderstood.

** If you want to read about the messiness of our denominations' position on this particular issue, click here.

Ideas Please!

Earlier this week, several of us spent a day (or two) at a conference up in Longmont. The basic point of the conference was that it's not enough for a church to preach the good news to others. We must also show others the good news (I sure hope that sounds familiar!) Speakers challenged us all to make sure that we are loving our neighbors and making our presence felt in the community. The basic goal was to do/be church in such a way that people in our communities would actually notice if we shut down (that's been stated as a goal of First, by the way).

Well, the conference was both affirming and challenging. Affirming, because we could pat ourselves on the back and say: "Yeah, this First Church gets this. We've been loving our neighbors for a long time. We know that word and deed can't be separated." I think this is particularly true of the way we act as individuals in our community: the commitment of people in our church to ministries like Joshua Station, VIA, Kids Hope USA at McKinley-Thatcher, Partners Worldwide, CRWRC Disaster Response, and various other ministries really is quite phenomenal. So yeah, way to go First Church members. You done good.

At the same time, however, we wondered how we as an institution could improve our presence and ministry in the community. I realize that there is overlap between things we do as individuals (what we might call the "Church as Organism") and as an organization, but I'm curious about what folks at First think it means for us "Love our Neighbors" in Platte Park. What are the "needs" of this community that we can meet? How can we show the love of Jesus here? If you have any ideas, feel free to post a comment or talk/email me or Shirley. We'd love to hear from you...(and don't worry about proof reading. I don't proof read and don't expect you to either!)

Yikes

As those of you who study the calender in the "Weekly" closely know, I've been in Grand Rapids the past few days. Some of you may wonder what I'm actually doing here (besides enjoying the fabulous West Michigan Weather--Rain, drizzle, rain, drizzle, clouds, drizzle repeat...). So I'll tell you...

Today I spent my time today (Thurs) with a dozen other preachers speaking with Scott Hoezee, the directer for the Center for Excellence in Preaching (CEP). The main topic was how to make the Center's website more user friendly and useful. This discussion was the primary reason the CEP flew me out to Grand Rapids. It was a good day--I met some great folks, got to talk about preaching (which I love), and I'm excited to see what changes are going to come at the CEP in the (near?) future.

The other perk of the trip was that I got to take in a preaching conference yesterday (Wed). The theme of the conference was "Preaching, Pain, and Pastoral Identity" (sounds like fun, doesn't it?!). It was primarily structured around Paul's experiences in ministry (particularly, but not exclusively, with the church in Corinth). The point was to draw analogies between what Paul experienced in ministry (and how he handled it) and what we can expect to experience in ministry (and how to handle it). If you know anything about Paul's ministry, you'll know that "encouraging" or "cheery" might be the wrong word to describe the topic at hand.

Throughout his letters, Paul doesn't hesitate to talk about the great suffering he has endured for the gospel. Paul endured shipwrecks and beatings, slander and imprisonment. And here's the thing--he expects all those who follow Christ to endure something of the same (not just leaders in the church!)

There are probably a lot of different reasons for that. But the main one is simple--that pattern of cross shaped living is one that Christ laid out for us. He suffered, and so shall we. If you read Paul, or Peter, or Jesus himself, it's hard to come to any other conclusion.*

That's a tough sell. It's not exactly "seeker friendly" to tell people who want to follow Jesus to shoulder a cross. It'd be a lot easier to think that Jesus calls us to a life that is comfortable, a life where all our problems are washed away with our sins, a life of "success."

But Jesus doesn't do that. He calls us to die (and rise!) daily. So here's the question: What does that look like in our lives? Chances are that most of us won't give up our life itslef at thius point. But what will we give up? Food for thought...


*"It is clear that since God leads those he loves by way of trials, the more he loves them, the more difficult the way will be." (St. Teresa of Avila)

Back to Basics

Last Sunday morning, I met for the first time with our "Foundations" class at church. It's a new class and is designed people who are new(er) to First Church, are curious about what we believe and who we are, and perhaps might even want to become members some day (if they're not already). The basic idea is to start broad (with what it means to be "Christian"), narrow down a little (what it means to be a "Reformed" Christian) and then narrow down even more (what it means to be a part of "First" Christian Reformed Church. That's the basic outline, but I'm developing the particulars as we go. That meant that last Saturday afternoon, I was sitting in my office, trying to discern what is at the core of the Christian faith--what people absolutely have to know--in 4o minutes or less.

Well, I thought it would be relatively easy. After all, I (like many folks at First) have been a Christian all my life, attended Christian day school and college, and spent the last four years of my life studying at a very good seminary. I have been blessed with a toolbox full of resources that should have made my task a simple one. It should have been easy.

But it wasn't. I sat there in my office, drumming my pencil against a legal pad, wondering what I should say. I started and stopped. Started and stopped. Drank some coffee. Started and stopped. Got some candy from Sandie's office. Started and stopped. It was turning out to be a much more difficult task than I anticipated.

I was reflecting on why that was so this week. There are probably a lot of reasons, but one stood out--that toolbox full of resources. It was a blessing, yes, but it was also my curse (if you'll allow me to paraphrase Spiderman). I had a million things to say. But I had nothing to say. With so much information floating around my brain, I was oddly paralyzed by the thought that I would leave something out or miss some crucial detail, or perhaps that I would lead my class astray by failing to explain the mystery of the Trinity or the many facets of Christ's atonement. I was overwhelmed by the possible complexities of what should have been a simple task.

I suspect that I'm not the only one who has this. Perhaps many of us feel that way when we try to talk to our neighbors or children about Christ. Because so many of us have been given so much knowledge. And while that's wonderful, I wonder if it overwhelms us and causes us to forget the true simplicity of our message.

I was talking with the other members of the staff about this in our meeting on Tuesday. What would you have said, I asked? One of them (it was a woman, if that narrows it down) responded by telling a story about a time she was in some far off place and was talking to a man she had never met before. She too, felt overwhelmed by all that she could say. But then, she said, she felt a gentle nudging of the Holy Spirit. "Just tell him that God loves him and wants to have a relationship with him."

It seemed simple. Unsophisticated. Maybe even childish. But she listened. She said the words. And the man started to weep.

Maybe it is that simple. God wants to have a relationship with us. In Jesus, God makes that relationship possible. And now we belong, body and soul, in life and in death, to him.



So: comments? Am I the only one? what are other roadblocks to clearly articulating our faith? (I have a few ideas, but I'd love for folks to comment...)

From the mouths of children..

Last night at family night, Ana Engelsman and her friends was playing around the baptismal font in the sanctuary, waiting for her mom to finish up rehersal. Her mom, seizing the teachable moment, said, "Do you know what that's for, Ana?"

"Yes," said Ana, "That's where the babies are adopted."

Exactly.